


Chasing the Moon

by ShadowThorne



Category: Bleach
Genre: Assassin's Creed inspired, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThorne/pseuds/ShadowThorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's finally decided that the nameless assassin, the most infamous of the brotherhood, needs to be dealt with. The Knights Templar put together a faction of their most skilled warriors for the soul purpose of killing him. After an unlucky break, the odds are against the hunted man as he's forced to flee the city and out into a cold winter night. AU. rated for violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, about the story... It's loosely (?) inspired by Assassin's Creed, but not really set in any particular one of the game universes or anything. It basically just uses the Templar and Assassin titles, so if you don't know anything about the games or have never played them, it wont matter~ You'll still be able to tell what's going on~  
> Also, it's very open ended...so there's a decent chance that I'll end up writing a second part to wrap it up, as it will most likely bug the crap out of me if I don't... But anyway! On to the story!
> 
> Enjoy!

In every society, there are always those few individuals that stand out, draw attention to themselves and became something more, something above those around them. They are the people that become famous, that live on in memory and go down in history, but sometimes, those people wish to remain anonymous, to blend in with the background. Some excel at remaining invisible, at hiding and sneaking, at doing the deeds of the great and powerful from behind the scenes. They formed groups, bands of people that lurked the shadows and hid in plain sight.  
  
They were assassins and they did their work in silence and stealth, mastering the ways of secrecy and the art of quiet death. But even among those that were nearly invisible, some stood out. Some were more infamous than others.  
  
At the very top of that list, a man with no name stirred trouble for the group known as the Templars. He above all others, was made a target for elimination. It became the Templars’ main priority, for while he lurked the shadows, their men would be assassinated and their plans would fail.  
\------  
  
The midwinter night was dark, the sun having long ago settled below the horizon, and still longer yet to rise once more. The moon shone high above, filtering through the leafless branches of the trees, reflecting blueish on the heavy blanket of snow that accumulated upon the withered forest’s floor. A light but bitter cold breeze whispered nearly soundlessly through the trees, drifting the snow and making small undulations not unlike waves in an ocean. Any tracks made were covered, swept away by the still falling snow and the wind that worked with it. All was silent, but the forest wasn’t as empty as it seemed.  
  
The snow crunched quietly under soft-soled, tan boots. The breeze tugged lightly at the loose fabric of white robes, fluttering the pointed, characteristic hood that marked the silent man as what he was; an assassin trained in the art of necessary murder. Various straps held the tools of his trade, tightened to fit snug against his lithe body so that they would neither make noise as he moved, nor hinder him. He crept through the snow, darting from tree to tree in silence, his keen gaze scanning the surrounding forest but ultimately landing back upon the group that had been hunting him.  
  
A faction of templars sat huddled around a flickering fire adorned in full gear, their weapons within easy grasp at their sides. With the fall of darkness, the weather was worsening, the air growing even colder. They intended to wait it out and resume their hunt when the sun rose with the next morning, hoping that the cold would slow the clever assassin and weaken him.  
  
It was a solid plan, logical and it worked against the man being hunted. If he started a fire to keep himself warm, they would find him. Yet he couldn’t continue running through the night. After being cornered in the city hours ago, he had narrowly escaped. Luck had been on his side and the building he had been pressed against held a ledge close enough to the ground for him to reach. With years of training, he had made the stunning vertical leap, catching hold and swinging himself up before propelling himself to the roof. But it had only slowed the templars and he was forced to continue his desperate flight.  
  
After doubling back around, rushing through twisting and winding alleys and roads, the man had managed to reach his horse. Sprinting up from behind the beast, he vaulted onto it’s back, landing in the saddle and snagging the reigns. Trained to assist him, the horse didn’t spook, but instead tossed it’s mane and snorted through it’s flared nostrils, feeling it’s master’s urgency. Without prompt, the horse had surged forward, tearing through the oddly deserted streets.  
  
It was then that the assassin began to realize just what was going on. This wasn’t a normal attempt to kill him, these men wouldn’t stop until he was dead. The stakes had been raised and the price for his head must have been great.  
  
He had fled the city in hopes of putting some ground between himself and those chasing him. Leaning close to the horse’s powerful neck, he had urged the beast forward until exhaustion slowed the creature’s pace, yet still he was being chased. The templar bastards would not relent.  
  
Now, after hours on the run and far from the city, he crept through the darkness. Had he been under normal circumstances, he would be tucked away in a safe house, sheltered from templars and the harsh weather, but he had little choice in the matter.  
  
The cold seeped in through his less than apt clothing, clothing meant for stealth and speed and not designed to keep him warm while being exposed to the elements for extended periods of time. The cold stole his strength and made his limbs tremble. His steps become less surefooted and more stuttering, a sign of the tole his body was taking even though he bore very few wounds.   
  
His breath puffed in the chill air, a white fog to mark his slight panting but still he crept forward. The heat of the templars’ fire had melted the snow around them, leaving the saturated but still frozen ground exposed. The light it created glinted from their weapons and from the armour they wore, dancing through the lifeless tree trunks. Luckily the man was the very best at what he did and even as he stepped into the feeble light, he remained unseen.  
  
If he could eliminate the templars now, he would be able to dig in for the night, borrow the fire left behind. He could guide his horse from where he had left the beast and they could bed down and wait out the harsh, bitter night, returning to the city with dawn, but that was an if and the odds were not working in his favor.  
  
Outnumbered, the man cloaked in white crept around in the darkness, ever closer to his enemies. He selected the highest ranking of the seven templars to circle around, hoping to take out their commander and create chaos. Flexing his pale fingers in the effort to regain feeling, he brushed one hand over the frigid hilt of his sword before withdrawing his hand and continuing forward.  
  
With unmatched stealth, the assassin silently closed in on his target, the templar officer oblivious to his presence. His prized hidden blade surged forth with a quiet snick as his hand closed around the enemy’s chin and mouth, keeping the man from screaming as the blade drank deep and painted his clothing with his own blood. The commander died within seconds, his body left to slump to the cold ground as the nameless assassin whirled into motion.  
  
One man had already been killed, but the chaos the assassin had been hoping for didn’t strike the camp and make the enemy soldiers falter. A man shouted orders in a language the assassin couldn’t understand as he pulled forth a sword, pointing it toward the would-be angel of death. Realizing the man he’d killed had been a decoy, the assassin cursed under his breath as he forced frigid air in and out of his lungs in a steady, controlled rhythm.  
  
The men around him organized around their leader and fought in unison, showing the training they had undergone in order to reach their position in the knighthood. Forced to draw his own sword, the assassin parried a slash from his left as he dodged a thrust from in front of him. He twirled about, sword arcing through the bitter air with a low whistle to bite into flesh. Most of the strength behind the strike was absorbed by the armour worn by the templar and the reverberation that ran the length of his blade from contacting the metal stung his frostbitten fingers and palms.  
  
Hissing a breath, the nameless assassin retracted his sword, throwing it up and ducking just in time to catch another, downward strike from the enemy. The force of the hit made his already struggling body tremble but he didn’t let it show, springing back to his full hight as the attacking templar made for another swing. His blade thrust through the shoulder joint in the man’s armour, tearing muscle and flesh and letting blood flow under the man’s breastplate.  
  
As the assassin prepared to finish off the injured templar, another came in from behind him. He took note of his attacker a moment too late and even as he threw himself into a roll, he felt steel rip through his cloak in the back and part the pale flesh just over his hip. His blood ran burning hot against his chilled skin, staining the signature white of his uniform a bright crimson.  
  
He sprang back to his feet as he finished his roll, spinning with near perfect balance to face those at his back. He planted his back foot as another man rushed him. The wound sent a sharp lance of pain down his leg as he put his weight on it, buckling slightly before deciding it would hold. He didn’t have time to let it slow him and he threw his sword up, catching the templar’s blade. Shifting his grip, he held the other man’s weapon out wide and punched in with his free hand, his hidden blade snicking from it’s sheath under his wrist to puncture between the enemy’s ribs.  
  
The man cried out and reeled backward, his hands covering the bleeding wound. Another replaced the injured man, drawing the assassin’s attention and putting pressure on the skilled killer while his comrades surrounded the desperate man once more. Swords lashed out. Commands and words were shouted in a foreign language, though the meanings were easily enough deciphered.  
  
From not far away, the sound of a bowstring being released had the assassin’s eyes widening where they were hidden in the shadows of his cowl. He dropped to the ground in a crouch, spinning off in the first direction his instincts bid him to. The point of an arrow sliced through the fluttering end of his robes before punching into the ground below.  
  
It momentarily pinned him, but the ground was frozen and the arrow hadn’t embedded deeply. The shaft snapped as the assassin surged from the ground, spinning off in the opposite direction he’d ducked. More shouts proceeded him as the templars worked in remarkable tandem to insure he did not escape again.  
  
He came face to face with a man and his sword. Still working against the elements attempting to seal his fate, the assassin jolted back as a blade slashed through his chest. His pained sound caught in his throat as steel ground against his sternum and he fought to stay ever silent, as was demanded of him by his training. Cold air rushed in through the tear of his robes, quickly chasing away the burn of the slash and numbing the wound. It however also further slowed his swift movements, allowing the warmth held in by his now torn clothing to flee his core and steal the majority of his body heat, numbing the rest of him as well as the gash.  
  
The quiet, barely audible groan of a bowstring being pulled taught had the assassin curling his lip as he hissed another cruse under his breath. He again shifted his footing, spinning to the left in the attempt to get out of the arrow’s path before it was let loose. As the bolt slid through the frosty air, the assassin’s footing faltered on the frozen ground. The arrow dug deep but didn’t strike him straight on, instead it carved a path through the tender flesh along his ribs before it exited, never puncturing vital regions but leaving a ragged and bloody wound behind. The fletching slid through the gash, burning and catching and was torn from his flesh as he continued his twisting movements.  
  
Panting and shivering, both from blood-loss and from the unrelenting cold, the assassin began switching his mindset from trying to kill his enemies, to trying to get away from them. His vast training and skill kept him from panicking, kept him calm in the face of unrelenting opposition, but internally, deep in the back of his mind, that training also told him his chances at surviving his botched attack were growing slim. If the templars didn’t kill him, it was likely the weather and cold would.  
  
Ducking into another spin, the assassin’s sword shot up and out, slashing across the backs of a man’s knees, shredding the tendons that controlled movement. The man crumbled to the ground, his legs nearly useless. The next swing of his sword sent lancing pain through the deadly man’s abused chest, tightening his already laboring lungs and pulsing behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth in a hidden grimace, the assassin reached up to press his free hand against the wound, his fingers quickly slicked by hot blood.  
  
Knowing his moment of withdraw needed to draw near, he backed away and disengaged the man he’d been preparing to attack. At the first opening he received, he lashed out with his sword and spun on his heel, dashing out into the dark of night. He left the light of the campfire behind, darting between and around trees. As expected, the templars gave chase. They snagged their horses, quickly mounted and began running the assassin down.  
  
The templars had the advantage of speed on their side, but the assassin hadn’t left his horse far away and he knew that if he could only make it to his trusted beast, he’d be able to out run and out distance the enemy hunting him.  
  
As he ran, the shouts of men and the pounding of horse hooves echoing around him, an arrow thunked into a tree nearby. He ducked slightly, steps faltering in the heavy snow, but he didn’t turn to look back. He darted around another tree and leapt a fallen branch, grunting as pain shot down his leg with his landing. Still he ran, his breath coming in short but controlled gasps, his legs pumping and his torn robes fluttering behind him.  
  
He darted off to the right and around yet another tree just as an arrow lodged into the snow where he’d been running. Not far now, but the mounted templars were gaining ground, drawing closer with every step. Another arrow zipped passed him and the assassin hissed a curse, his keen eyes scanned the dark and the shadows for his horse.  
  
All white, the beast blended in quite well with the shadowed but snow covered surroundings. Finally, the assassin caught sight of the animal as he neared. Already untied and saddled, the horse snorted through it’s nostrils and tossed it’s mane as it rolled dark eyes toward it’s running and panting master.  
  
Sprinting up to the creature’s side, the assassin grabbed the reins and slid one foot into the stirrups of the saddle, giving the creature the command to begin galloping before he’d even fully mounted. The horse did as was told and surged forward, it’s longer and more powerful legs able to plow through the deep snow far easier and swifter than the assassin himself had been able to.  
  
The horse in full gallop, the assassin carefully but quickly swung his other leg over the horses back to sit in the saddle. He leaned close to the beast’s thick neck, one hand wrapped around the reins, the other pressed almost desperately to his still bleeding chest. An arrow cut through the darkness like the shouting voices following him. It scraped along the horse’s flank, slashing a thin red line through the animal’s white coat but it did little damage and sank harmlessly in the snow.  
  
The horse whinnied, tossing it’s nose into the air. Still urging it faster, the assassin grit his teeth as he shifted his weight forward further and stood slightly in his stirrups, bringing his face closer to the beast’s head. “Come on, Zan. Ya really ganna let ‘em keep up wit’ us?”  
  
The horse snorted an almost derisive sound through his nostrils and tossed his head slightly as he stretched out his neck and lengthened his stride. A small smirk taking over the assassin’s hidden features, the man settled back into the saddle, still leaning forward over the big animal’s strong shoulders. The shouting behind him grew angrier, more desperate and less sure, letting the dangerous man know without looking that his horse was indeed faster than theirs.  
  
Just as he dared to take a quick glance behind him, letting his trusted stallion guide them through the trees and snow, the snap of an arrow being released from it’s bow cut over the shouting voices, unnaturally loud and foreboding to the assassin. His eyes widened as he watched the arrow arc toward them with perfect aim but, sitting astride a horse sprinting at full speed, he had no where to go.  
  
His pained cry shattered his previously held code of silence as the sharp point cut through his clothing and bit deep into flesh. The bowman, one of the templar’s most skilled, had hit his mark and the assassin doubled over where he sat, hand dropping from his torn chest to settle lower, over his abdomen. Air burned going down his throat and his breath hitched painfully as his shaking, half frozen fingers brushed a warm, slick  and sharp protrusion where nothing but smooth flesh should have been.   
  
Looking down only confirmed what he’d feared. The arrow had not only struck him, but ran through his torso, impaling him and thrusting out through his abdomen. With a trembling hand, the assassin gingerly wrapped his fingers around the length of the arrow that protruded just below his ribs on the left side. If he could snap the shaft and break off the point and the fletching, he would be able to remove the arrow, giving the wound a better chance of healing before infection set in, though spinning about to break the side that still protruded from behind him would be nearly impossible. It quickly became apparent that it didn’t much matter as the simple touch to the arrow sent pain lancing through his core and his hand fell away as a pained noise worked it’s way up his throat.  
  
Teeth bared and vision blurred, he turned slightly, trying desperately to ignore the sharp pain the movement caused, to look behind him again. The templar were falling behind, their horses unable to match the swiftness and speed of his own, but they were still giving chase for the moment. They would not give up easily with their prize so close at hand.  
  
Sensing his pain as he shifted and his breath came in labored pants, the assassin’s horse hesitated, it’s fast pace faltering slightly. The rider furrowed his brows and spurred the horse onward but he leaned forward again and patted the horse’s outstretched neck, appreciating the gesture and thankful he’d taken the extra time while fleeing the city to grab his horse rather than steal another.  
  
As he pulled his hand back to his torso, gingerly settling it over the deep gash in his chest to help stem the blood flow once more, he grimaced at the smeared, bloody handprint he’d left behind on the animal’s white coat.  
  
The assassin and his trusted horse spent the next several hours in near full flight, chasing the moon as it descended toward the horizon. It wasn’t until the sun was beginning to rise behind them that he allowed the beast to slow. By the time the man finally gave the reins a light tug, the large animal he sat astride was panting through flared nostrils, head hanging low in exhaustion and muscles quivering under the saddle. The assassin himself clung desperately to consciousness. His mind and thoughts were dark, foggy and his vision pulsed in and out with the beat of his heart. His hand had fallen from the wound in his chest as he lost the strength to hold it there and sat limply in his lap, the blood coating it half dried and half frozen. His other hand was still looped in the horse’s reins, but it too sat in his lap, the reins slack and giving the horse the freedom to do as it pleased.  
  
Slumped forward, he no longer felt his body shivering as it tried to stay warm. He all but lay across his horse’s strong neck as the animal slowed from a gallop to a trot and eventually to a walk. The horse trudged through the snow, picking his way between the trees as the assassin finally lost the battle with his injuries and the elements, succumbing to the darkness closing in around him despite the light of day that came with the rising sun.  
  
Unbeknownst to the wounded assassin or the templar knights still searching out his trail in the vast forest, the hunting party and their deadly prey had wondered into someone else’s territory. He was a simple huntsmen by trade, making his home in the forest on the outskirts of the next city over. His small cabin was located deep within the woods, hidden away and out of sight, private just like the man that lived there.  
  
He rarely ventured out during the winter, preferring to wait out the worst of the season in his well stocked home, but as luck would have it, he had made a trip into town the previous evening. As night fell, he’d opted to wisely stay in town and begin the trek back home with the rise of the sun.  
  
He was nearing his home when an odd sight caught his attention. Hardly a half mile from where his cabin sat, he halted his own horse and sat up straighter in the saddle, leaning to the side slightly so that he could look below he and the animal. Breaking the thick crust of fluffy white snow were the dragging tracks of an exhausted horse. Smeared about and as uneven as the tracks were, sunken into the snow, it was hard to tell for sure, but the man was fairly certain it must have been carrying a rider. The horse itself was probably a long, lean breed, not meant to be ridden so hard out this far but meant more for speed over smooth ground. Whoever rode the poor thing so hard must have been desperate, but the splash of brilliant crimson staining the otherwise unbroken white every few feet surely gave that away.  
  
Sever brows furrowing, the huntsman tugged lightly on one side of the reins in his hand, turning his horse in the direction the tracks led. Normally he’d care little about what fate was met by whoever was foolish enough to venture so far into the forest during the harsh, midwinter season, but he hated seeing the horse suffer a similar fate for it’s rider’s stupidity.  
  
Clicking his tongue quietly, his horse, a stockier and thicker furred beast accustomed to traveling through the snow and ice, gracefully slid into a brusque trot. They followed the tracks and the huntsman took note of the thick droplets of blood and the steady pattern and interval at which they stained the snow, meaning the wound it came from had yet to close and must have been grievous enough that whatever clothing the rider wore could not soak it up at a quick enough rate to match the bleeding.  
  
The longer he followed, the more apparent it grew that both horse and rider were in a bad state. The trail wavered and weaved through the trees, never actually going in a straight line that would have suggested any sort of guidance. The horse’s steps were uneven, adding further proof to the beast’s exhaustion.  
  
Finally, after nearly twenty minutes of following the trail, the huntsman came within sight of who had made said trail. He pulled lightly on the reins of his horse, slowing the creature from it’s trot so that they approached slower while he took the sight in.  
  
Barely clinging to the saddle, a rider in telltale white robes slumped against his horse’s broad neck, leaning precariously but making no move to keep himself from sliding from the animal’s back. One arm hung limply at his side, the other folded in front of him to rest across his lap. Blood stained various parts of the prestigious and fear inspiring uniform, standing out harshly on the otherwise colorless pallet and the tail end of an arrow jutted from the man’s lower back, toward the left side and angled to suggest it had been shot from quite a distance. His head was tilted so that the huntsman couldn’t see his face, but there was no doubt he was unconscious. In fact, had the blood staining his ground and his clothing not been so fresh, he would have thought the assassin dead where he sat.  
  
White ears perked and flicked back toward him as the huntsman guided his mount a bit closer. The assassin’s beast snorted and brayed an almost aggressive sound, side stepping as it turned slightly so that it could watch him approach. The change in motion made the limp body the beast carried shift precariously but still the wounded man showed no signs of waking.  
  
Frowning, the huntsman pulled his horse to a stop and swung a long leg over it’s back, dropping from the saddle to land knee deep in the snow. Leaving his mount behind, he knew the animal would stand patiently and await his return, so he directed his attention to the white horse carrying the wounded man.  
  
The beast flattened it’s ears and flared it’s nostrils, shifting where it stood in the deep snow. It’s body language screamed uncertainty, like it would either bolt or charge at any moment and it still trembled from it’s no doubt wild flight.  
  
The huntsman held his hands out, gently patting at the air as he slowly walked toward the spooked horse. “There, there, boy. Wouldn’t want to hurt that rider of yours any further, now would we?” He spoke in a soft, reassuring voice, careful not to make any quick movements that might startle the beast into motion.  
  
While the horse looked as though it wanted to run, it also looked too tired to do so and after a few minutes of careful coaxing, the huntsman managed to get close enough to snag the horse’s halter. The horse snorted and tossed it’s head under his hand but it didn’t rear or try to take off and the man laid his other hand across it’s nose in a gentle pat, settling the animal down before it threw it’s precariously perched rider.  
  
After a moment, he clicked his tongue and called his own horse over. The heavier beast almost disinterestedly glanced at the white one as it’s owner pulled them close. Taking the loose reins from the unconscious man, the huntsman looped them over the saddle of his own horse so that the assassin’s horse wouldn’t be able to take off once he pulled the rider off.  
  
Rounding the white horse’s other side, the huntsman looked up at the injured man. There was no doubting he was indeed an assassin, and a high level one looking at his blood stained uniform. Common sense said to leave the man be, wether he survived or was killed off by the elements and whoever had injured him. To help and harbor an assassin was to invite the wrath of the knights templar, not to mention risk the chances of the dangerous man awakening and killing him.  
  
But when he reached up and pulled the assassin’s deep hood back to reveal startling features, the huntsman quickly made up his mind. Pale, almost boyish features faced him, the colorless brows pulled into a pained scowl even in the man’s unconscious state. White hair had fallen loose from it’s tail, hanging about the man’s face and shoulders now that his hood no longer held it back.  
  
The huntsman cautiously laid his fingers against the side of the pale man’s throat, feeling his shallow but steady pulse. His own brows furrowed and his angular features twisted into a slight frown, he gave the injured man a light shake, seeing if he would awaken.  
  
When the assassin didn’t stir, the huntsman pulled his arm from his lap and draped it across his own broad shoulders so that he could loop a thick arm around the man’s lithe waist. The assassin was smaller than he was, light and wiry, coupled with the way he was already hanging from his saddle, it was easy for the huntsman to pull him the rest of the way down and lower him to the ground.  
  
The injured man’s horse brayed and pawed the ground in agitation but it couldn’t go anywhere and had to settle for standing near by.  
  
Careful of the way the arrow jutted from the man’s body, the huntsman carefully laid the assassin down in the soft blanket of snow. He cringed when he realized the arrow had pushed it’s way completely through the man. It would have to be removed before he could drape the man across his horse and bring him to his cabin and the warmth it provided.  
  
Casting his gaze outward, back the way the assassin had come from, he sought out any signs of those that had injured him, knowing they must have been templar. Who else would dare hunt down an assassin so ruthlessly and even manage to push him into fleeing? And such a powerful killer at that... He’d heard the stories about this particular man, everyone had. He was nameless and silent, sweeping through the streets and eliminating his targets like a ghost, like he’d never really been there at all. He’d always heard rumor that the ghostly assassin was as white as his uniform. Some of the tales were so extreme they said it was caused by demon possession, but the huntsman had always suspected it was paint, just a way to make the assassin stand out and strike terror in the hearts of his enemies.  
  
Now that he saw the man for the first time, now that he brushed his wide hood away from his slack features, pulled up the edges of his long sleeves and wiped away some of the blood that marred his shredded chest, the huntsman realized he really was as pale as a ghost, as white as the stories. He lay limp in the snow beside the kneeling huntsman, nothing but the vivid red of his blood to separate him from the white all around.  
  
The quiet echo of voices in the distance snapped the huntsman’s gaze away from the wounded man. He looked up, searching through the trees for the source, though he knew who the sound must have come from. The trees would provide cover for them, but if the group of templar hunting the assassin managed to stumble upon his winding trail again, they would surely be found.  
  
At the sound of the templar, the assassin’s horse reared slightly, front hooves pawing at the air as it tugged at it’s reins to get loose, ready to bolt again. The huntsman leapt to his feet, quickly rounding the prone man laying in the snow and reached up to grab the horse’s halter. He pulled the beast back down so that it stood on all fours once more, keeping it from making noise. With slightly wide eyes, he shushed the animal and rubbed it’s nose, attempting to sooth the horse.  
  
When it fell still and quiet once more, he rushed back to the injured man. He had little choice now, and even less time. He quickly assessed the visible wounds before pulling out a knife and cutting away part of the man’s blood soaked garments so that he could better get to the arrow impaling him. Gingerly running his fingers down the smooth shaft of the arrow where it stuck out behind the man, he searched for any already weakened areas that might break easier.  
  
Concentrating on what he was doing, the huntsman missed as ashen brows furrowed further at the light touch. Finally deciding it’d be best just to snap the arrow as close to the man’s back as possible so that he’d have less to draw through the wound, he wrapped one big hand around it to hold it still. Taking a deep breath, the man took one last look around before jolting into motion. In a swift jerk of motion, he bent the arrow shaft, snapping it with a sharp sound not unlike that of a twig breaking under foot.  
  
A sharp, gasping breath was drawn between pale lips before being released as the beginnings of a pained scream. Jumping in surprise, the huntsman practically fell on top of the wounded assassin, leaning close to his body and covering his mouth with a big hand to muffle the sound as he all but pressed him further into the deep snow. The injured assassin’s hot breath panted against his hand through his nose as barely stifled groans crawled from the man’s pale throat.  
  
Gaze scanning the trees, searching for any signs that the scream had been heard, the huntsman brought the pointer finger of his other hand up to his lips, trying to tell the man he needed to stay quiet. Without looking back down at the smaller man below him, he shushed the man as he explained in a quiet growl of a voice. “They’re not so far away, still hunting you.”  
  
The muscle of the assassin’s jaw bunched below his hand and he finally looked down, finding himself pinned by intense, startling eyes of the oddest color. Gold like the sun in the summer burned from within the deep shadows of a winter night, wide with a mix of fear, pain, surprise and a multitude of other reasons at the moment.  
  
“Shhhh...” The huntsmen nodded slightly, still looking down at the smaller man. He received the barest of nods from the assassin in reply, who’s body had gone rigid and trembled with the trauma it was dealing with. Removing his hand from where it had been clamped over the man’s mouth, the huntsman sat up again, easing off the injured man so that he could begin working on removing what was left of the arrow.  
  
“You’re the one they say is nameless.” The bigger man rumbled, his voice still low but loud enough for the other to hear. The assassin nodded again, panting through parted lips as he stared up at the bigger man with a watchful, if slightly hazy, gaze. “This is going to hurt, assassin.”  
  
The huntsman watched those eyes widen even further as he grasped hold of the front of the arrow, near the head that had run through the man’s abdomen. His other hand spread out at the base of the shaft, covering the tear in pale flesh it had made, he began drawing the arrow through the ravaged flesh and half dried crust of blood.  
  
The smaller man’s body arched away from the snow he lay on, twisting and contorting in discomfort but the pained sound that threatened to shatter the silence came out as a groaning, distorted and pain-filled word instead.   
  
“Sh-Shiro.” The assassin ground out through bared, clenched teeth as he fought to stay still and stay quiet. His startling eyes had been squeezed shut against the blinding pain, his brow furrowd. He could feel the arrow catch at his flesh and slip through his body. Fire lit in his lungs, making breathing painful and difficult and his head spun as though he’d pass out again. “Th-tha’s what I’m called...Shiros-saki.”  
  
When the blood slicked arrow was finally pulled from his abdomen and dropped to the snow, the assassin’s body went limp once more, collapsing back into the snow as he lay panting and staring up at the bare branches of the trees above him. The random, crisscross pattern the dead wood created seemed to fuzz in and out of focus before it was replaced by something much closer. Angular, chiseled features blocked his view, brilliant, crystallin blue eyes looking down at him. The bigger man’s chaotic mess of blue hair blended with the blue sky between the trees and only helped to bring out the brightness of his eyes all the more. Then he realized the man’s lips were moving, forming words.  
  
“-up? ...Hey, focus.” The huntsman frowned down at the injured man, grabbing hold of his shoulder and giving a squeeze as he began pulling the man into a sitting position. “You think you can stand?”  
  
The assassin hissed a breath through his teeth as he allowed his top half to be pulled forward so that he sat in the snow rather than laid. Shivering from both the cold and blood-loss, he wrapped one arm around his torso, pressing his shaking hand to the deep hole where the arrow had been. He shook his head slightly, hair falling about his face. The arm supporting his weight trembled from the simple task of keeping his upper half off the ground. “Doubt it.”  
  
The huntsmen grunted his agreement and looked over to their horses. Giving a low whistle, his horse’s ears perked as the animal came to him, the assassin’s white stallion in tow. Standing, the bigger man contemplated for a moment before deciding they would both have to ride his horse. The assassin’s stallion was still recovering from it’s hard run and taking the extra weight of a rider off would do the animal good, plus it seemed unlikely the injured man would be able to stay in the saddle without assistance at the moment, if he even managed to stay awake.  
  
A few more shouts in the distance echoed to them. He glanced down to see the assassin freeze up as he listened. Deciding it was time to go, the bigger man stooped low, effortlessly lifting the injured man from the ground.  
  
Shirosaki gasped a shocked breath and grit his teeth as he was hoisted up onto the back of a black horse, just behind where the saddle rested on the animal’s back. Taking a moment to breathe and let the pain from the sudden movement subside, he clutched at the animal before he gingerly and with great difficulty swung one leg around behind the animal so that he mostly sat on it rather than laid across it. When he was mostly settled behind the saddle, the huntsman swung himself up into the saddle and snagged the reins.  
  
As the huntsman kicked his horse into a swift trot, the man behind him jolted and fisted pale hands into the back of his thick coat. The white horse trotted along beside them as they quickly covered the ground back in the direction of the bigger man’s abode.  
  
“Heh.” Shirosaki chuckled, a grin curling his pale lips. There was little humor in the sound or the expression, however, as the assassin felt his grip going slack without his consent. “I’m ganna end up bleedin’ all over ya.”  
  
The big man shrugged slightly as though it hardly mattered, vision still trained ahead as he guided his horse through the forest.  
  
“I thought...I was the one tha’ was supposed ta be so damn quiet.” Shirosaki mumbled, more of his weight leaning forward onto the man in front of him. His voice stuttered slightly with his shivering, but the odd distortion didn’t seem to change with it’s pitch and fluctuation.  
  
The big man grunted an amused sound. “Well, it’s not everyday I find a dying assassin out in the middle of the forest and decide to take him home.”  
  
A slightly manic chuckle escaped the wounded man, holding an almost creepy edge to it, though perhaps it only seemed so because of the watery tone to his odd voice. “Wh-why are ya helpin’ me?”  
  
The bigger man shrugged again. “Not all of the citizens are blind to what’s going on.”  
  
“Ya know...if the templar find o-out...they’ll kill ya.” The man said between labored breaths.  “It’s likely, yes.” The huntsman agreed with a slight nod, noting that the assassin’s trembling had ceased, his body going lax. “But I can hardly let the symbol for the knighthood’s despair be killed. The city needs you and you need safety to rest and heal.”  
  
There was a long pause before the assassin dragged up the strength to speak again. “They’re ganna think me dead. When they don’ find me in the snow somewhere, they’ll tell the order I was killed...”  
  
“Yes.” The huntsman slowed his mount as they neared his cabin. “And word will spread that the infamous, nameless assassin is dead. They’ll use it as a way to crush hope and resistance.”  
  
Behind him, the assassin bared his teeth, a quiet, lilting snarl working it’s way from his throat. “Then I guess I’ll have t-ta survive this and rise again.”  
  
“And strike fear in the hearts of your enemies, a true ghost.” The bigger man dismounted, careful to keep the assassin, who’s consciousness seemed to be wavering, from falling to the ground.  
  
A wide smirk creased pale lips as the assassin’s oddly colored eyes rolled and he finished slumping forward where he sat, darkness over coming him once more. The huntsman guided his horse into the small barn situated beside his home, putting the assassin’s horse in an empty stall while his own went into a different stall. Pulling the wounded man from the saddle, he carefully carried the man into his home and out of the cold.


	2. Chapter 2

A strained groan crawled from the slim man’s pale throat with barely a sound, quiet even as the injured assassin fought against the dark haze that held him unconscious. The huntsman paused in his work, looking back to the smaller man’s features. His pale brow furrowed as he struggled to reawaken.  
  
Near by, a fire crackled in a fireplace, casting the room in a warm glow. Even though it was still daylight out, only hours after the injured assassin had been found, the room clung to it’s shadows. The curtains had been drawn against anyone from outside who may chance a peek inside. Normally, the huntsman wouldn’t have bothered. He lived far enough away from the city that he needn’t worry about such things, not to mention he wasn’t usually harboring dangerous fugitives, but seeing as the group of templar that had been hunting his guest were likely still in the area, he’d taken as many extra precautions as possible.  
  
The huntsman carefully laid the needle he’d been using aside, letting it dangle from the string knotted around it, and dipped his blood stained hands into a basin of clean, hot water. Toweling them off quickly, he took a step back and away from the killer slowly awakening before him. He’d cut away most of the assassin’s stained robes to get to the man’s wounds and he now lay across a blanket lined table in what was left. While the sword the pale man had carried sat propped against the wall across the room, the vambraces strapped to the assassin’s forearms had been left in place, the huntsman not daring to touch them, leaving the deadly man armed with his infamous hidden blade.  
  
As the smaller man’s mind began reawakening to the sounds around him, another groan bubbled in his throat before he raised a shaky hand and gingerly laid it across the half stitched wound in his abdomen, just below the left side of his ribcage. The deep gash in his chest, caused by a lucky sword slash that had managed to strike far deeper than it should have, had been bandaged up. Thick, white cloth gauze had been wrapped around his upper torso after the wound had been cleaned, blending with his already pale complexion and holding the wound closed while it healed. A few drops of red were already beginning to seep through the bandaging, but it was to be expected from such a ragged wound.  
  
Porcelain colored lips pulled down slightly, into a half frown, half sneer, as the assassin’s fingers brushed the rough edge of the gut-string that made up his stitches. Slowly, his eyes opened to reveal his slightly unfocused but startling gaze. Golden irises cornered to inspect the room for a moment before landing upon the big huntsman.  
  
Even after divesting himself of the heavy, fur lined coat he’d worn while outside, the blue haired man was massive. Corded muscle rippled with each movement under the man’s tight fitting shirt. Even just standing there, a few feet back and looking about as unthreatening as a man his size could, the bluenette was imposing. Those frigid, crystallin eyes followed Shiro’s every small movement with predatory cunning as the man finally set aside a damp towel that had once been white, now stained a saturated red.  
  
The assassin, still watching the bigger man with caution in his burning eyes, began sitting. One hand still held to his aching and pain riddled abdomen, he pushed the other behind him to support his weight. Leaning forward, his chest heaved against the fire that lit in his torso. He bared his teeth against it but made not a sound, his unnerving gaze never leaving the bigger man. He didn’t look away until his slightly shaking fingers brushed something slim and cold. As they did so, he looked down, raising an ashen brow as he held a needle still dangling from the thread stitching his wound between his pale finger and thumb.  
  
“Wha’ the hell?” He mumbled, grimacing slightly as he inspected it. The sewing job wasn’t bad and it held his wound closed, except where had yet to be stitched of course, but the needle still hanging from him was a bit unexpected, a little startling even.  
  
Standing in front of him, the huntsman shrugged slightly and stepped forward again. Now that the assassin was awake and didn’t seem overly aggressive, he deemed it safe to edge near the smaller man again. “I’m not finished yet, but I didn’t know how kindly you’d take to waking up with a man hovering over you, and I prefer not to have to stitch myself back together.”  
  
“Ya really think I’d hurt the guy helpin’ me?” Shirosaki asked as he carefully swung his legs to hang over the side of the table, taking deep, controlled breaths while he fought back a shiver as his bare flesh was caressed by the air of the cabin.  
  
The huntsman simply quirked a single blue brow at the killer and sent a pointed look to the vambraces circling the pale man’s wrists and forearms. The blades themselves were hidden from sight at the moment, but the threat they possessed certainly wasn’t.  
  
“Tch.” The assassin gave a sheepish smirk and shrugged slightly as he began to hop down from the makeshift mattress.  
  
The huntsman took another step forward. “I don’t think you should be doing that.” He told the injured man as his feet hit the floor.  
  
“Why no– oh...” The assassin’s question melted away as the room started to spin the moment he tried standing upright. He listed to the side slightly before bending forward at the waist and using one hand to steady himself against the table’s edge. A breath hissed between his teeth as his battered body trembled, barely supporting him while he fought an unending wave of dizziness caused by blood-loss and mild hypothermia. “Ok...not a good idea...”  
  
The huntsman snorted an amused laugh. “Back on the table so I can finish stitching you up.”  
  
The assassin, carefully breathing in through his nose, nodded slightly and turned back toward the table. The simple motion of spinning around threw him further off balance and he sucked in a strained breath as he stumbled, forced to pull the arm he’d had wrapped about his battered midsection away to help steady himself. The muscle of his back and core went rigid as he slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against the blanket padded, makeshift operating table, closing his strange eyes against the spinning the room was doing.  
  
With only the slightest hesitation, making sure he wouldn’t receive a knife for his efforts, the huntsman neared the assassin. When his big but surprisingly careful hands settled along the man’s sides in an almost gentle but guiding motion, the pale man instinctively jerked away, head coming up and whipping around to pin the bigger man with eyes that burned bright with threat and caution.  
  
They both froze for a moment, taking the other’s measure before, without a word, the huntsman began helping the assassin up onto the table and Shiro slowly began relaxing under the man’s hands. When the injured assassin was finally back on the table, laying rigidly still, he pulled in a deep breath, holding it while he pushed the pain coursing through his system aside. He released the breath in a controlled puff and reopened his startling gaze, looking up and over at the huntsman who had brought him in.  
  
The huntsman raised a single blue brow in question and the pale man nodded slightly as he forced himself to relax where he lay. Surprisingly skilled fingers plucked the needle up, only hesitating for a moment before going back to work. The blue haired man bent low over the other’s torso, leaning close to his work so that he could be precise and swift. The needle re-pierced colorless flesh in a fluid motion before being pulled out the other side, drawing the thread through and closing off another section of the deep wound.  
  
The assassin hardly moved, the only reaction to show he even felt the needle being a slight curling of his lip. He trained his gold on black eyes downward, watching the man that helped sew him up and had already bandaged the majority of his other wounds.  
  
As the huntsman pulled the thread tight again, looping it around before sticking the needle through the man’s pale flesh again to continue drawing the arrow puncture closed, he took note of the assassin’s ease. He spoke in a deep rumble of a voice, never pulling his intense eyes away from what he was doing. “You take getting sewn up rather well. You’re used to it, I take it.”  
  
“Heh.” The assassin chuckled in his watery voice, shrugging slightly as he finally pulled his vision from what the huntsman was doing to look about the room and take in his surroundings a little better. “I used ta be, when I was jus’ a novice. I thought I was pretty hot shit an’ did a lot a stuff I prolly should a left ta the higher level guys. Bu’, eh, worked out in the end.”  
  
The huntsmen grunted quietly, his tone amused and a little bit ironic. “Not this time.”  
  
The assassin growled, his white teeth bared and his over wide grin turned into a fearsome snarl. “This time was different, I was desperate an’ tha’ don’ happen often. I’d a been dead if I was still jus’ a novice. Those templar’ve been gunnin’ fer me hard lately, las’ night worse than usual.”  
  
“I’d guess they’re probably just as desperate. You’ve become quite the threat to the knighthood. The people resist and even rebel in your name.” The huntsman paused for a split second, a small smirk slanting his lips. “Well, as close to in the name of a nameless man as they can, at least.”  
  
A matching smirk spread the pale man’s features, accompanied by a short, lilting laugh. His strange eyes flickered over the bigger man still bent over him, taking in the set to his strong jaw and the way concentration pulled at his features, wrinkling the bridge of his straight nose. His shoulders were broad, his arms strong from the work he did out in the forest and with his horses. The hem of his shirt had ridden up in the back from the way he leaned forward, revealing golden, sun kissed skin and his jeans rode low enough to reveal cut hipbones and a peek at the column of rigid muscle that ran the length of the man’s spine. His long legs were clad in loose fitting breeches, not like the skin tight ones Shiro himself wore, but ones that were designed more ruggedly to be worn while riding, rather than sneaking and climbing.  
  
The pale assassin mentally shook himself from his study, pulling his gaze back toward his own body. He began making a tally of his own wounds and a rough calculation of how soon he’d be able to return to his chosen profession. It would take him at least a few days until he was well enough to be up and moving around, weeks before he’d be healed and recovered enough to make the trip back to his city. But he couldn’t stay in this man’s cabin, not while the knights templar were after him. He was endangering an innocent, and one that was kind enough to offer him sanctuary at that.  
  
A small sneer found it’s way to his features as he tried to decide just how quickly he’d be able to leave. If his horse was recovered from their wild flight soon enough, he may be able to push his still healing body as soon as a week, as long as he took the ride back to the city slower than the flight out, but that was counting on the templar not finding him and speeding that journey up.  
  
His thoughts melted away as warm skin brushed his own chilled flesh, a big hand gently wiping away some the blood that had collected around his freshly stitched wound. He shivered slightly at the contact, wincing at the small amount of discomfort from the pressure as he fought back the instinctive intake of air from the unexpected tremor that ran down his spine.  
  
The bigger man froze up for a second, hand still hovering over the dangerous man before he glanced over at the assassin’s features, quirking a brow in question. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.” He mumbled.  
  
“Nah, ‘s fine.” Shiro told him, voice just as quiet as he shivered against the air that suddenly seemed so cold compared to the man’s touch.  
  
The huntsman let out a deep rumble of a chuckle before he reached over and tugged at the edge of one of the blanket’s he’d wrapped around the makeshift table. He pulled it over the slimmer man’s bare shoulders before stepping back and giving his handy work one last look over.  
  
“That should do it, but you’ll have to go easy. I’m handy with a needle, but I’m not a doctor.” The bigger man rumbled as he leaned back against the wall behind him. He crossed his muscled arms over his broad chest, watching as the assassin slowly sat back up, wrapping pale fingers around the edge of the blanket to keep it pulled over his bare upper body. “I’d usually tell you to leave now, or stay in the barn for the night, but you aren’t quite a normal guest and it’ll probably be a few weeks before you’re well enough for travel... There’s a spare room down the hall. It’s small, but there’s a bed.”  
  
Shirosaki hesitated, unused to such kindness in his line of work and unsure of how to deal with it. When people saw him in uniform, in the fear inspiring and unmistakable white robes, they went the other direction. With his odd looks, that was usually the reaction he got even on the rare occasions he was seen not in his assassin robes too. “Wha’s yer name?”  
  
A handsome smirk tugged at the bigger man’s features, setting a chaotic swirl to his electric eyes. “Grimmjow.” He all but growled, the name rolling from his tongue with a bit of a cocky and proud edge.  
  
The assassin let his grin widen again, taking over his ghostly features in a slightly manic but amused and pleasant expression. “Well thank you, Grimmjow.” Then he turned to look over his shoulder toward the hallway, letting the blanket slip from around his shoulders before carefully dropping to the floor, much slower than the first time. He gingerly made his way to the room he’d been allowed to borrow, wavering slightly and with one arm wrapped around his abused abdomen.  
  
Grimmjow watched him go, his keen eyes flitting over narrow but strong shoulders, down the flawless and white skin of the man’s back, marred only by white bandages now, and down long, lean legs. Every part of the smaller man was toned to match his fast paced lifestyle. Shaking his head slightly, the huntsman turned and headed in the opposite direction to begin some of the chores he’d neglected in favor of taking care of the stranger’s wounds.  
  
In the next couple days, the two saw little of each other. Grimmjow kept busy with his normal routine of taking care of his animals plus an extra horse as well as daily house work. The cold weather and heavy snow kept him close to his cabin, but he had prepared ahead of time and had plenty of wood cut and ready to keep his home warm. The few times he’d ventured down the hall to the room his deadly guest was staying in, the pale man was passed out in an odd position on the bed, most likely trying to keep most of his weight from his wounds while he slept through and waited out the worst of the pain they caused. During one of his check ins, he left the assassin a plate of food sitting upon a small table beside the bed.  
  
The huntsman found it hard to believe the smaller man slept through his comings and goings, seeing as his profession and training had surely made him into a light sleeper, but then the assassin was also quite injured on top of being worn out from his wild flight into the forest. It was hard to tell just when the last time he’d really slept had been, so Grimmjow said nothing about it, leaving the man be. He didn’t bother worrying about the dangerous man wondering his home. There was no point to worrying. Shiro was an assassin, if he intended to harm Grimmjow, the huntsman knew there was little he’d be able to do. An assassin that moved like a ghost, silent and swift, Shirosaki could easily enough stick a knife in a simple huntsman’s back when he wasn’t looking. Or probably even when he was.  
  
It wasn’t until the third night of his stay that Shirosaki showed himself again and Grimmjow probably wouldn’t have even known he’d been up and out of bed had the pale man not hurt himself in the process. Being upright put a different kind of strain on his grievous wounds and even as the pain from the sword slashes to his side and chest began dulling, the puncture from the arrow that had impaled him remained sharp and made it feel as though he breathed fire.  
  
Panting slightly in shallow breaths and wincing at the effort to even do that, the assassin made his way toward the front of the small cabin nearly silently, empty plate in hand. He peered around each corner before entering a new room or continuing down the hall, more out of habit than necessity, and eventually found the kitchen. Most the rooms were dark and empty on the way, only a single candle light flickering from one room marked where the huntsman was, so Shiro silently eased passed the doorway, intending to slip through the cabin unnoticed before returning to his rest.   
  
Upon entering the kitchen, he made his way to the counter to deposit the plate. He began setting the porcelain dish on the edge of the counter when something brushed against his leg in the dark. Instinct made him react and he spun about, releasing the plate and preparing his hidden blades, now not so hidden since he didn’t wear the robes that marked him as what he was, but instead strapped to his otherwise bare forearms.  
  
His strange eyes instantly landed on the culprit. A large tom cat with half a tail and a shaggy grey coat stared back at him with shining, green eyes. Huffing a slightly irritated breath that came out as more of a restricted hiss through clenched teeth, the assassin gingerly pressed a hand to the stitched up wound below the left side of his ribcage as he turned back toward the counter to see the plate teetering precariously on the edge.  
  
His gold on black eyes widened as he made a grab for the dish but it slipped between his pale fingers as fire ignited between his ribs and raced up his sternum. The plate shattered on the wooden floor of the kitchen, shards sliding across the room, as Shiro barely stifled his pained cry. Forcing his breaths to come in mostly even intervals, he sank to the cool floor, disregarding the broken plate as he wrapped his arms around his sore body and squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
To the assassin’s surprise, he didn’t hear the huntsman’s rushed but impossibly light footsteps and Grimmjow found the pale man curled about himself, panting as he waited for the pain from his fast movements to recede to something more bearable. The bigger man lowered himself to his knees beside the injured man. He didn’t touch the assassin, but his hands hovered close as he spoke quietly in tentative question. “Shiro?”  
  
The pale man stiffened, his eyes snapping open to corner and look upon the kneeling huntsman. He took a few deep, measured breaths before he began letting his body relax and he straightened into more of a sitting position. He mentally cursed his quick reflexes as he mumbled out a “ ‘m fine.” on an exhaled breath.  
  
The huntsman chuckled and climbed to his feet, offering the injured man a hand to follow him.  
  
Shirosaki accepted the offered hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. Once standing, he sheepishly looked at the broken pieces of the plate. “Sorry...”  
  
“Heh, it’s just a plate.” Grimmjow grinned and began leading the way from the kitchen. “Since you’re up, let’s take a look at how your wounds are doing.”  
  
The ghostly assassin followed behind the huntsman and the two began looking over his wounds and redressing them in clean bandaging. Not long later, Shiro returned to his borrowed room and, after cleaning up the broken shards of plate, Grimmjow went to his own with the intent to sleep through the rest of the night so that he could be up with the break of dawn like normal.  
  
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be happening. True to what Grimmjow had wondered about before, the assassin was indeed a light sleeper and so, as he lay asleep in his borrowed bed, when something crunched in the deep snow outside, his pale brow furrowed. He didn’t open his eyes as he lay still and waited, listening to the quiet sounds of the cabin and wind outside. After several seconds of nothingness, he was about to allow his mind to slip back under the haze of sleep when the startled, almost aggressive bray of a horse broke the silence. It was quiet, almost impossible to hear over the wind and the distance between the house and the barn, but Shiro recognized the sound and was positive something had spooked his horse. He waited for a second, equally unhappy whinny before he surged from the bed as quickly as his still mending body would allow for.  
  
He gasped in discomfort as he shot to the door, his footfalls silent and light on the cool floor. He pushed the door open an inch, peering through to insure he and the huntsmen were still alone before he threw the door wide and sprinted down the short hall. Used to working alone and only looking out for himself, his first reaction was to get to his horse before the templar found him, but he pushed that aside and instead charged silently into the second bedroom the cabin had, the opposite direction of the exit.  
  
The big man occupying that bed was still deep in the restful bliss of sleep, his steady breathing the only sound coming from within the shadowed room. Shiro slipped in and crept to the bed’s edge. He glanced down at the sleeping man, his senses still mostly trained outward. At a shrill cry from his stallion, Shirosaki snarled and leaned close to the huntsman.  
  
“Grimmjow.” He said in a quiet but sharp voice that showed his urgency.  
  
The blue haired man was startled awake almost instantly and bristled as he sat up. His confused anger melted away as he found himself staring at pale features only inches from his own face. “Shiro?”  
  
The assassin’s hand came up, snagging hold of the bigger man before he could stand. “Shhhh...”  
  
“What? Why aren’t you resting?”  
  
“Listen.” The assassin hissed, pushing the man back once more as Grimmjow tried to stand again. “The templar ‘re here.”  
  
Blue brows furrowed as the huntsman started to speak but his words didn’t reach his tongue as he finally caught the faint sounds the assassin had heard. His blue eyes widened slightly and darted toward his bedroom door before landing on the pale man kneeling beside the bed.  
  
Shiro’s inverted gaze was steely and cold, professional and dangerous. It spoke of murder and the ease with which the assassin took a life. That look sent a slight tremor down the huntsman’s spine.   
  
“They gotta already know I’m here. Zan’s bein’ too loud fer them not ta an’ if it wasn’ templar he wouldn’ be makin’ so much noise.” The assassin said in a low, distorted voice. “I ain’t ganna let ya get hurt, not after helpin’ me so much.”  
  
“You can’t fight them. You’ll never win in your condition.” Grimmjow arched a single brow at the assassin.  
  
“Yer prolly right, but I gotta–” Shirosaki was cut off as the bigger man interrupted him.  
  
“No you don’t. You owe me nothing, I helped you of my own freewill, freewill that you fight to protect.” Grimmjow rose from the bed, the muscle of his shirtless torso rippling with his smooth movements. “Hide and I’ll send them away.”  
  
Shiro sneered at the idea. “They ain’t ganna leave without searchin’ the place.” He hissed back at the man, but a loud bang from the front door announced that they were out of time.  
  
“Hide.” Grimmjow insisted as he ducked and pulled a single shot, hunting rifle from under his bed. He cocked the gun, pushing a shell into place and another into the pocket of the pants he’d never changed out of as he crossed the room to his door.  
  
The pounding continued, insistent and almost violent. Shouting followed as men demanded for the door to be opened. Shirosaki scrambled behind the huntsmen. “Fine. But I ain’t goin’ far and if they come in, I ain’t sittin’ by. We’ll fight tagether an’ if we don’ win, tell them I forced ya ta help me. Yer jus’ a citizen, wha’ could ya possibly do agains’ an assassin?”  
  
Grimmjow hesitated, sending a sidelong glare the assassin’s way, but he nodded anyway and leveled his gun toward the door as the assassin took up a place behind it. Fixing his angular features into an angry scowl, the blue haired man sent the assassin one more look before he threw his front door open wide. Shiro stared right back at him, motionless and silent, like the ghost he was claimed to be, as the door swung open and consequently hid him from view of the templar standing on the huntsman’s doorstep.  
  
Holding the shotgun level with one hand, the muscle of his corded arm bulging under it’s weight, he held the edge of the door with the other, keeping it from actually opening all the way. He stared at the half a dozen men crowding his door, dressed in templar uniforms and carrying weapons of their own. Not so far in the distance, the assassin’s stallion could still be heard as it reared and kicked at the door of it’s stall.  
  
Frigid blue eyes narrowed slightly as Grimmjow bent his arm and let the barrel of his gun rest against his shoulder, pointed toward the ceiling rather than at the men at his door. Still, he didn’t bother hiding the irritation in his voice even as he tried to act like he wasn’t hostile toward the men at his door. “What can I do you for, gentlemen?”  
  
“We have reason to believe you may be harboring a wanted man, or perhaps have knowledge of said fugitive.” The man in front said, accent coloring his words and showing that he spoke in a language that wasn’t his native one.  
  
Grimmjow frowned, still standing in front of his door and looking large and imposing, even only half dressed and freshly out of bed. “I don’t know of any fugitives.”  
  
“I think you do. You house the horse he fled the city on in your barn-”  
  
The huntsman glanced passed the man he spoke to, looking at his barn. The wind caused the deep snow to drift against the outer walls, but it hadn’t covered the fresher tracks made by the templar men that had obviously already searched the structure. He let his vivid gaze go back to the man addressing him as said man spoke again.  
  
“and the assassin wasn’t with it.”  
  
Grimmjow let his frown deepen, a look of slight start and surprise crossing his expression. “Assassin...?” He whispered in his deep voice. “There’s an assassin running around? All the way out here?”  
  
“Don’t play coy with me.” The templar knight shifted his stance, doing his best to ignore the cold breeze. “You house his horse, you must have known who stumbled to your door.”  
  
“No. I found the horse riderless wondering through the trees on my way back from town.” Grimmjow explained, making up things as he went. “It’s a well bred beast, I brought it in before it could freeze to death.”  
  
The templar before him narrowed his eyes in suspicion, unsure if he bought the man’s tale. They hadn’t found a body, nor remains of a body and the still falling snow had covered most the tracks they’d found after their first day of search. It was possible the snow had also covered the body if there was one to find, but the man hardly believed the horse would have left it’s master’s side. The opportunity presented to them was too great to let slip through their fingers. They needed to finish off the nameless assassin while they had the chance and until they had a body, the head of the knights templar would not be satisfied.  
  
“It seems an aggressive creature. It let you near enough to lead it back here?” The man asked Grimmjow.  
  
“After some coaxing, yes. It was freezing and hungry, spooked too. A treat and the right handling easily enough won it over.” The wind whistled through his doorway and Grimmjow shivered slightly as it brushed his bare torso. “Now, if I’ve answered all your questions, I’d like to get back to my warm bed. I have things to do in the morning.”  
  
“Ahh, yes, it is quite cold out here. Perhaps we should continue this inside?” The templar suggested.  
  
Grimmjow hesitated for a split second, his body going rigid for that single moment, before he let his arm drop and the barrel of the gun he’d been holding swing down a little lower to point more toward the floor. He let his cold gaze search the faces before him before looking back to the leader of the small faction. “I’d rather you left.”  
  
He began pushing the door closed, but a hand upon it halted it’s progress as the commanding officer of the small group pushed it open again and took a step inside. He couldn’t pass Grimmjow, nor see the assassin still hidden from view, but he looked up at the large man with suspicion showing clearly in his eyes. Grimmjow saw the look for what it was and curled his lip slightly, shifting slightly to draw attention to the weapon he held and making it a threat without a word.  
  
“Who in their right mind would let a handful of strange men into their home in the middle of the night? Now get out of my house.” The huntsman said in attempt to divert the man’s suspicion. His natural aggression made his already rough voice take on a growling edge but he worked hard to keep his hot temper at bay, lest the assassin’s enemies force their way in. “If there really is an assassin on the loose, you should be hunting him, not harassing me.”  
  
“We are hunting him.” The officer said, not backing down. “Grant us entry before I haul you off for obstructing our search and let myself in anyway.”  
  
Grimmjow sneered, but he was backed into a corner and out of excuses. The angry scowl marring his features lessened as he contemplated what to do. He refused to sell out the pale man taking refuge with him, but he would do the man little good if the templar locked him away.  
  
The decision was made for him as, with his hand still braced on the door’s edge, he felt Shirosaki pull it open a fraction of an inch from the other side. The templar noticed nothing, simply thinking it was man standing before them who had moved the door and Grimmjow quickly covered his surprised reaction by sighing and stepping back and pushing the door open further. He didn’t set his gun down however, and even though his eyes remained trained on the templar officer entering his home, he watched for signs from Shiro out of his peripheral.  
  
Not a moment later, the pale man revealed himself with stunning speed and the silence expected of him. He slammed the door back shut in the face of the other templar and snarled as he threw the unsuspecting huntsman violently back and to the ground, consequently pushing him out of harms way and making it look as though he cared little for the man’s well-being. In a voice that was so quiet Grimmjow himself wasn’t sure he’d really heard it, the assassin whispered a reminder, telling the huntsman to heed what he’d said to do.  
  
As Grimmjow was knocked from his feet, the quiet snick of the assassin’s hidden blade announced the officer’s impeding death. The closed door didn’t hold the other’s at bay for long, only a split second, but in that time, Shiro’s blade sank deep into the soft flesh just to the left of the templar officer’s spine. It cut between ribs, severing nerves and blood vessels before sinking into the man’s kidney.  
  
As the enemy cried out and slid from the blade, the door was thrown open to slam against the wall behind it and the other templar soldiers flooded in. Shiro snarled as he spun, his bare feet light and his steps precise. He ignored the burn and ache of his wounds, injuries that hadn’t had nearly the time they needed before he should have been up and moving like he was.  
  
His hidden blade arched through the air and slashed a man’s gut wide open, cutting muscle and sinew and grinding against the protective bone below. He spun away as hands grabbed at his bare upper body. In the back of his mind, he feared the templar would have brought something more high caliber than a bow this time since they hadn’t the need for silence any longer, but he couldn’t give that fear much thought as he fought on and it seemed the templar preferred the more traditional methods for hunting assassins down anyway.  
  
Mesmerized by the deadly, yet somehow beautiful dance the assassin gracefully preformed, Grimmjow found himself frozen in place as he watched, still half on the floor and slow to pick himself up. He was but a citizen, after all, a simple huntsman by trade. But as the assassin’s movements began to slow, his fatigue beginning to show and his injuries beginning to catch up with his swift pace, and the pale man’s blood dripped to his floor along with templar blood, Grimmjow found that he couldn’t stay still, that he couldn’t do nothing. His hand closed around his gun, his knuckles white for how hard his grip was.  
  
Surrounded and outnumbered again, as he had been before, Shiro was struck from behind and lost his footing. Nearly falling to his knees, he struggled up right, abandoning his silence in favor of snarling like the cornered predator he was. He surged forward, his golden eyes lighting on the open doorway as he fought off the men trying to capture him long enough to land a killing blow.  
  
His bare feet hit snow just as a templar drove him back to the ground. Still snarling and still fighting, the assassin panted, his vision wavering with the wild beat of his heart. He was dragged through the snow a little ways, his startling features twisted in both pain and rage, out in front of the huntsman’s home and somewhere in his mind he was glad he wasn’t to be executed in the man’s home, where he’d surely make a mess, but that didn’t mean he was about to give up so easily.  
  
A hard kick to his already flayed chest knocked what was left of his breath away and had his aggressive growl catching in his throat. He fell back to his knees, his mind working too fast to feel the cold and everything in him telling him he was about to take his last breath. His already low energy reserves depleted, his less than healed wounds slowing him down and making his body heavy, he sneered up at the templar towering over him with a defiant gleam to his crazed eyes as the man pulled a sword.  
  
Shirosaki took one last look up at the pale moon hanging high over the his executioner's head. He would die with dignity, neither shedding tears or begging to be spared. He drew a calm breath in through his nose, holding it for a moment as he closed his eyes and released it just as calmly. There would be no torture, no interrogation. The knights templar had ordered his head and they knew the futility of trying to force information from the higher level guild members, let alone from the ghost assassin himself. The nameless man would die without giving up any information, but his death would be enough to sway the balance and tip the scales in the templars’ favor, at least for a while.  
  
As the sword began it’s decent, a low whistle marking it’s journey, Shiro steeled himself, his body going rigid on instinct and his features set to a forced mask of blankness. Time seemed to slow as he listened, though he didn’t move, nor even open his eyes. His last sight would be of the large, pale moon hanging high over head, just as he’d always liked it. Before the blade could strike home, however, a deafening shot echoed through the frigid night air, making everything fall still and silent. Even the assassin remained still, not daring to move for a moment. After a few seconds, when nothing happened and the cool night took on a frozen, deafening quiet, he dared to open his eyes only to realize the man about to kill him had fallen to his knees before the assassin. They stared each other in the eye for a split second before a wide, insane grin ripped across Shirosaki’s features, followed by almost hysterical laughter as the templar soldier’s eyes rolled and he fell the rest of the way to the ground.  
  
The assassin’s laughter didn’t last long as the rest of the surviving templar members kicked into motion. One sent a quick but strong shot to the assassin’s jaw, leveling him and sending him sprawling in the deep snow. Then he followed the other remaining men as they went for Grimmjow.  
  
“Wha’ the hell are ya doin’?!” The assassin screamed at the huntsmen, his eyes wide as he struggled to lever himself from the snow and climb to his feet. He had been prepared to die and let those of the knighthood think he’d forced the huntsman into helping him. He had been prepared to ruin all that he had worked for, all that he and the brotherhood had accomplished. All of it gone with the single stroke of sword, with the death of a nameless man that had become the knights templars’ biggest threat, all for the chance that a single civilian, one man who had risked all for his sake, would have been spared, and Grimmjow destroyed that chance, possibly signing his own death certificate with a single shot from his hunting rifle.  
  
Shiro didn’t quite make it to his feet as he stumbled a step back toward the cabin. The deep snow slowed him, stole his body heat and made his extremities go numb. His panting breaths puffed in the cold, dark air of the winter’s night. Another gunshot echoed through the trees.  
  
What the assassin hadn’t counted on was that, while Grimmjow was only a citizen, he was no push over. His work had hardened him, honed his body and built his muscle. He was a big man and he used that to his advantage. When the second man he’d shot fell to the white snow, red seeping below him and melting the snow he lay on, he tossed his gun aside and surged forward, toward his next intended victim.  
  
Bigger than the templar soldier, Grimmjow’s body weight slammed the man to the ground as a rumbling growl left the big man’s throat. Following him down, Grimmjow landed to half straddle the man, his big fist making a mess of the man’s face as he broke the soldier’s nose, shattered his jaw and left him laying in a bloody pool.  
  
At least one of the men the assassin had been fighting still lived, and the man laying at Grimmjow’s feet still clung to life, gurgling wetly as he tried to breath, but all went unnoticed as the huntsman stepped away from the templar soldier, his intense cyan gaze landing on the beaten and bloodied assassin still kneeling in the snow.  
  
A slight smirk quirked one corner of pale lips as Shiro finally gave up on trying to stand, instead settling for sitting in the snow and trying to control the automatic tremble that ran through him as he watched the blue haired man approach him. “Ya know tha’ was stupid.”  
  
Grimmjow chuckled and knelt in the snow in front of the assassin. Throwing cation away and knowing by now that the deadly man he spoke to wouldn’t harm him, the huntsman settled his hand along Shiro’s bruised jaw, using his thumb to wipe away a few drops of blood that had collected along his colorless bottom lip. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
“They coulda killed ya...” The gold of Shiro’s piercing eyes seemed to nearly glow in the dark, catching the light of the moon and a little wide with his concern as they drilled into the blue ones trained on his own. “Still could. They’re never ganna stop huntin’ me and now yer ganna be-”  
  
Grimmjow shrugged like it hardly mattered and let his thumb settle over pale lips, making the assassin fall silent. “We’ll leave tonight. I know you can’t and probably don’t want to leave the brotherhood, so I’ll just go with you.”  
  
“Wha? But yer... I don’ think tha’s a good idea...”  
  
The huntsman shrugged again, stooping to pull the smaller man from the snow. “Probably not, but you can’t stay here now that they’ve found you. When they realize this faction’s gone missing, they’ll send others to hunt you down and you wont be well enough to make a trip back to the city and the guild’s headquarters on your own anytime soon.”  
  
Shiro winced as he was pulled from the ground, but he couldn’t help but huddle close to the bigger man and the warmth his body offered. He was about to continue protesting, but a loud bray from the barn had the assassin’s eyes widening before a vicious sneer crossed his features and he tried to push away from Grimmjow. “If they hurt my horse...” He left the threat hang in the air as the big arms circling him tightened and Grimmjow started trudging through the snow toward the barn.  
  
Used to living out in the forest, the huntsman wasn’t as bothered by the snow and the cold as the assassin, a man accustomed to racing through the streets of the city, and though even he would admit it was a cold night, Grimmjow didn’t let it bother him. He carried the injured man to the barn before easing him back on his feet so that he could open up the barn door.  
  
Grimmjow pushed his way in first, checking that no one had stayed behind to wait for the assassin to retrieve his horse if he attempted to flee. When Shiro peeked around the door, ignoring the bigger man’s attempt to make him wait, he was greeted by a much happier whinny as his white stallion’s ears perked toward him, head stretched out over the half hight door that held him in.  
  
As the huntsman neared the horse’s stall, he grimaced slightly, peeking passed the big animal. Thrown against the back wall of the stallion’s stall lay a dead templar with an obviously crushed skull and ribcage. Something too thick to be blood oozed from the flattened skull, staining the flooring and the hay that’d been laid out. “Were you seriously worried about him?”  
  
Shiro just grinned as he gingerly made his way over. The horse pushed his big nose into the assassin’s chest as if happy to see him and Shiro patted his sturdy neck.  
  
“Tha’s what pathetic templar scum get, ain’t it, Zan? We’ll be back ta get ya soon.” The smaller man pulled away from the horse and turned back toward the barn door, the huntsman following behind.   
  
Grimmjow cast one last look behind himself at the white stallion still watching them. “You trained your horse to kill templar?”  
  
“Yep.”   
  
“Huh. Guess that would be handy.” Grimmjow shrugged as he followed the smaller man back out into the cold. Walking gingerly but at a pace that showed he was attempting some sort of speed, Shiro shivered beside him as his bare feet touched snow once more. Chuckling, Grimmjow easily scooped the man back up and out of the snow, carrying him at a much quicker pace back to the cabin.  
  
Once inside, Grimmjow deposited the man on a couch in his sitting room. “Stay here. I’ll grab some warm clothes and your weapons.” The huntsman bid as he turned back toward the interior of his home. A hand around his wrist stopped him.  
  
“Yer serious ‘bout goin’ all the way ta the guild house wit’ me?” Shiro looked up at the big man, his white hair falling around his shoulders and his body still shivering as the warmth of the cabin began pushing back some of the numbness from the frigid air outside. “Ya already proved tha’ yer a friend ta the brotherhood... I’m pretty high on the chain, I might be able ta get ya a safe place set up in the city. Someplace tha’ the templar wont find an’ we can kinda look out fer ya.”  
  
A frown settled over the huntsman’s angular features, scrunching his brow and setting his vivid cyan eyes aswirl. “I don’t really need anyone to look after me... In any case, I wasn’t really thinking to go with you because I fear the templar.”  
  
Ashen brows furrowed slightly in a confused expression. “Ya can’ come back here after I get ta the city. Wha’ other reason would ya have ta go?”  
  
The almost angry, offended frown melted away, replaced by a devilish smirk. “You don’t do much outside of the brotherhood, do you? Have any friends? Lovers?”  
  
The pale man’s confused expression only deepened as he watched the bigger man lower himself to kneel on the floor in front of him, bringing them to a more equal hight while Shiro remained seated. “No, not really... I devote myself ta the creed, anythin’ else would only put innocents in danger... which is wh-”  
  
Shiro was silenced as Grimmjow chuckled and leaned forward, capturing pale lips with his own. He smirked into the kiss as gold on black eyes widened in comical fashion before Shiro began kissing back. After a moment of petal soft touches and warmth, the assassin pulled back, his brows arched high and a slight, astonished quirk to one corner of his pale lips.  
  
“-oh... I get it now.”  
  
Grimmjow laughed and stood back up. “Good. Stay here and rest for a few minutes, I’ll get what we need.”  
  
It didn’t take long to collect what they would need for the trip through the forest and to the city. Grimmjow grabbed the assassin’s tools of trade, as well as his blood stained, torn uniform and a change of warm, dry clothing for him to wear on the way. He chose dark colors for himself and the assassin alike, colors that would blend with the night and not make Shiro look like the killer he was. Fresh bandaging, ammo for his hunting rifle and a few other items went into a saddle bag.  
  
Shrugging into a heavy, fur lined coat, Grimmjow dropped a second on the couch beside the assassin. It would be too big for the lithe man, but it would keep him much warmer than anything else the huntsman had and with his still mending wounds, and now his fresh ones, that warmth would be important during the long, cold night ahead of them.  
  
Using the furniture he sat on for support, the assassin gingerly stood and snagged the heavy coat. The larger man helped him change into dry clothing before he gingerly pulled the coat on, wincing as he shifted and stretched.  
  
Hissing a breath through his teeth, the albino assassin pressed his hand to the arrow wound, body rigid. “This is ganna be a very uncomfortable ride...” He grit out.  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t get impaled this time, then.” Grimmjow chuckled but he hauled their supplies over one broad shoulder as he carefully steadied the man at his side.  
  
“Good advice. Wish someone would’a told me tha’ before.” The assassin’s inverted eyes rolled sarcastically, but his strained smirk stayed in place.  
  
The ride back to the city would indeed be a long one, but the assassin wouldn’t be making it alone and when he arrived, the brotherhood would be waiting. And with him, Shirosaki brought a potentially valuable alley to the brotherhood; a strong man with a natural talent, a man most knowledgeable about the forest around the city. By the time the templar order realized their hunting party was missing, the nameless, faceless assassin they had thought to finally bring down would have already slipped through their fingers, disappearing once more and rising again as the citizens had need of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the writer, leave me your thoughts please~


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